Burning Bridges
by NCIS Fan28
Summary: "The one thing that was playing on my mind was: after all I had done, after all the people I had hurt in some way or another, could they forgive me and accept me again? Could they trust me again?" How do you cope when you have nothing? How is broken trust and relationships restored? What happened after Somalia? Rating is subject to change.
1. Chapter 1 Home

**WARNINGS: One suicidal thought in the first half... Nothing too dramatic, but its there, mentions of torture.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS, never have, never will.**

* * *

_**~Ziva~**_

* * *

I was not myself; I would never be myself again. Everything hurt or ached. There was no escaping it. I was betrayed by everyone; including myself. How are you meant to recover from that? That was probably their plan for if I lived; for me to not recover.

I was not a victim, I didn't feel like a victim; but I did not feel like a hero either. I definitely did not feel like a hero. I felt... I don't know how I felt, there were emotions - a lot of emotions - that were once familiar which were now foreign and I couldn't decipher them.

After Abby released me from her friendly hold on me, I was told to sit in my desk. Well, it was my desk. Once it was. Was it now though?

I limped over to it and sat at the chair, taking the weight off my sore knees, ankles and feet.

This wasn't my desk.

I chose. I chose Mossad over NCIS, my father over the people who felt more like family than my own. I had accused them - the people closest to me - of betrayal. The way they were acting and treating me told me that they did not care. Shouldn't they be angry with me? They should have left me there. I don't deserve them. They acted like everything contributing to my choices did not matter, not Tony killing Michael, not me staying in Israel, not anything. And it angered me for some irrational reason. I knew it was irrational but I couldn't change the way I was feeling. They should be yelling, telling me what I did was stupid.

But they didn't.

All that seemed to matter was Tony and Tim had gotten out alive, Saleem Ulman was dead, and I was there. I was alive. Something that seemed like body retrieval turned into a rescue mission, but they should not have gone. They shouldn't have even known I was there, and by the look on Tony's face when the bag was lifted told me he didn't. So I couldn't understand why they were there. Even now.

They all seemed to think I was dead. The whole building seemed to have lost hope - as I had - in finding me or me coming back.

I lost hope in a lot of things: my 'family', my father, my judgement and myself.

The one thing that was playing on my mind was: after all I had done, after all the people I had hurt in some way or another, could they forgive me and accept me again? Could they trust me again?

I may have been alive, but that meant very little if I was going to be shipped back to Israel. If they had brought me back, only to ship me back to Israel; I was better off dead. If that were the case, they should have left me there. If that were the case, then I might just so happen to finish what Saleem started.

Looking around the squad room I noticed people beginning to leave, I avoided the looks of the employees as the left after congratulating the team.

Ducky spoke to Tony while he checked over his injuries which the doctor from the hospital had already checked. Abby spoke to Gibbs and McGee at top speed, filling them in on what they missed while they were away.

I busied myself with studying the empty desk in front of me.

Empty; the desk was empty. Kind of like what I felt like then. Nothing held in it currently.

Every now and then, I would feel one of the men or Abby's eyes on me, sparing me a glance of worry, sympathy or concern. It made me uncomfortable, like I was being scrutinised. The only lingering pair was Tony's; he looked like he wanted to say something, but he didn't, making me feel under scrutiny even more. He seemed to hold my glance a moment before looking away. With the others; when I felt their gaze upon me I would look up and they would divert their eyes. But he didn't.

I patiently waited for my next order... Or waited to wake up and find myself in the hot, dirty cell that had been my home for the past few months to find that this all had been a dream.

I should be happy, I should be thankful that I was safe; I was rescued from the hell hole. But the truth was; I could not be rescued from _my own_ personal hell. No amount of shrinks and no amount of talking will ever make what I saw and what I felt go away - I already knew it was going to haunt me for the rest of my life. If not that then a _very_ long time.

"Where's Ziva staying?" I heard Abby ask. At the sound of my name, I looked up to see Abby looking at me followed by Gibbs. Instead of answering Abby, he addressed me.

"There's a room at the Navy Lodge that NCIS has hired for a while; you can stay there if you want for a few days or until you find another place to stay, unless you can think of a better option."

"She can stay with me," Abby offered.

"You okay with that, Ziver?" he asked, clearly liking that idea better than me staying alone the night after being rescued.

"Sorry, Abby, but I think I will take the room at the lodge," I murmured, my voice breaking at several intervals as I tried to raise my voice enough that it could be heard. I wanted to be alone. I needed to prove to myself that I was still strong.

She nodded, her eyes understanding but tainted with worry. Gibbs watched me for a moment longer, trying to decipher my decision.

"You sure?" he checked.

"Yes, Gibbs I am fine," I replied, breaking his piercing gaze, there was something intimidating about it that I never used to find intimidating. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I noticed that everyone began listening to us, abandoning their own conversations.

"Money?" he asked.

"I have some?"

"Can you access it?" he questioned.

"I do not know," I said as Gibbs walked to stand in front of me, I watched his movements cautiously as he took the measured steps towards me.

"I can help with that?" Tony said.

I shook my head: "I do not want charity," I told them, talking to Gibbs more than the others. Why was it that I couldn't turn to face him - Tony? I forgave him a long time ago, but if that was the case, why couldn't I turn my head and talk to him.

"It's not charity," Gibbs said, trying to read me but finding it difficult since I would not look at him, "are you okay?" he asked.

"I am fine," I repeated, flashing my eyes up at him momentarily before looking away again just as quickly as I looked up.

"Okay," he said, clearly not believing me. Not that I blamed him. I mean I didn't _look_ okay; I had cuts and bruises covering the skin that was visible.

He turned his back on me, addressing the others: "go home, all of you; rest. I want incident reports on my desk by the end of next week," he ordered, "I do not want to see you here again until next week," he said. They all began moving, slowly though.

Gibbs turned back to me: "you, I want you to rest; recover. You're lucky I didn't tell the hospital to keep you. You are now convincing me I made the right choice," he said firmly.

"Ducky," he said, turning away from me again. My eyes looked around the room until I laid eyes on the elderly man: "could you drive Ziva to the lodge?" he asked.

"Of course," he replied as he began walking towards me. I subconsciously tensed even though I knew he would not harm me and he seemed to notice, but did not comment.

"Do you want someone to stay with you tonight?" Gibbs asked turning back to me again.

"No, I will be okay," I said. I could feel him looking at me doubtfully, "I _want_ to be alone," I insisted, "I would not be good company at the moment," I forced out a dry laugh that hurt my chest and made me cough.

"There will be someone there, not in with you, but they'll be there," he told me, "Ducky will drive you to the lodge."

I simply nodded. I just needed to think; to process everything that's happened over the past few months and more recently the past day's events.

I needed to workout how to approach people, how to apologise for the things I have done and then how I could begin to get the broken battered thing I currently called life back on track.

Broken and battered I may e; but at least I was _home._

Yes, this was home now.

* * *

_**~Tony~**_

* * *

I watched as Ziva was accompanied from the squad room by Ducky, he accompanied her to the elevator where she was then removed from my line of view. This wasn't right. She shouldn't have to be accompanied in and out of this building. This was where she belonged; this was her second home - next to the one that was - used to be - her home here. Seeing that sent me plunging head first back to reality.

Jenny's death happened. Vance happened. Rivkin happened. Ziva's father happened. Somalia happened.

And now Ziva wasn't... Ziva. She was someone else in Ziva's body. The light was gone from her eyes. When she was in the chair across from me... I felt anger; anger directed at many people. Myself, her father, Saleem, even Gibbs to a degree. But everything else was clouded; relief, disbelief, the feeling you get when you wake up and aren't sure whether what you think you dreamed about was really a dream or whether it actually happened and worry all making one big mess and leaving me feeling overwhelmed. Worry because she might be free, but not necessarily out of the woods.

She - as of now - would have probably lost her job at Mossad - purely for the reason her father was a bastard who clearly had zero respect for his only living daughter, who only cared about whether the man – who put his daughter through hell – was dead or not.

With no job at Mossad, Ziva wouldn't even have the Mossad liaison position that was once held here, which would mean an NCIS job loss as well. But he guessed that was lost the moment she stayed on Israeli soil, choosing Mossad as her loyalty over NCIS.

I opened a new window on my computer and began typing my report. I wasn't sleeping tonight, may as well make myself useful. What I had written didn't have time stamps; it was a recall of what I remembered. It was, after all, hard to keep time in the middle of the desert with no watch.

"What are you doing, Tony?" Gibbs asked as he clipped his badge from his draw to the waist of her pants and clipping his already holstered weapon to the other side.

"Working," I stated.

"Thought I told you to go home," he said. I saw McGee from the corner of my eye. He had stopped gathering the little he had stashed behind his desk and looked at me.

"Wanna grab a drink?" he offered.

"No thanks, Tim," I replied turning back to my computer. Placing my fingers on the keyboard keys and typing a few more words.

"Tony, go home," Gibbs repeated more firmly, "everyone is home; safe. We left Somalia with more than we hoped. We have something to be proud of. The paper work will be there when you come in next. You need to rest," he said, his tone changing as he talked; authority leaving it, being replaced with something I rarely heard directed at me.

I admitted defeat - not out loud of course - mainly because I was tired of fighting. I was just tired. I followed Tim from the building, I knew Gibbs wasn't far behind; he probably went to see the Director to tell him the details of the mission.

I looked at McGee while the elevator descended to the lobby. I wouldn't admit it out loud either; but I was proud of him. He may have lied on the floor for the duration of the mission; but in the end if he didn't then the mission would have failed. He did stop Saleem from slitting Ziva's throat and then cut their bounds.

"Rough couple of days, huh?" McGee said.

"That's one way to put it," I replied as I reached my car, unlocking it and turning back to Tim, "see you tomorrow," I said.

I didn't want to begin talking about what had happened, or what might happen. Not yet.

"See ya," he replied. I could tell his was taken aback from the abrupt 'see you' from me.

I stepped into my car and began driving to the gates at a slow place. I wound the windows down, the car was getting stuffy and making it feel much more smaller than it was - beginning to make me feel claustrophobic, which I didn't usually have a problem with.

It was going to be a long night. It was going to be a long road to recovery. Not only for Ziva.

We all had our coping mechanisms. I would, tomorrow, go to the bar down the road from my place and tell a very tall story about my endeavours as a cop until some woman came home with me. Tonight, McGee would play his computer games and perhaps even call his sister and other members of his family. Gibbs would begin his next boat while drinking bourbon in his basement.

Ziva was my main concern though; I didn't want to push things - it was my fault in the first place - but she had nothing. What was her coping mechanism going to be; she wasn't going to talk. She only ever spoke when she was ready, and I doubt that she was anywhere near ready to talk about anything at this current point in time.

She spoke to me in the camp, then she shut herself off from everyone. When I tried talking to her on the plane, she'd either ignore me or she couldn't hear me, my bet was on the first. I don't blame her; she would come around when she was ready, and when that time came, I would take it all, no matter what form it came in.

We had to gain her trust again - we had lost it; that much I was sure of - but she also had to gain ours. She chose Mossad, that just so happened to hurt us all.

I knew rivers raged beneath bridges - that the raging river would need to be a trickling stream before the bridges even stood the slightest chance of being burnt. With that much water, the flames would be put out.

I arrived home a little later than it usually would have taken me, but I didn't care. All I wanted was to be in my apartment and have a shower to wash away the blood, sweat, sand and memories of being at the camp. Then, once I was clean I would look at and deal with everything else.

Through everything, the dirt ran off my body along with the hot water, but the image of a broken Ziva didn't leave. Sitting across from me, she looked broken beyond repair. Her eyes. voice: empty. Her skin: bruised. Her hair: messy. Lips: cracked. Hands: bound. Ego: gone. She was ready to give up, she had lost all hope. She had told me she wanted to die - that she was _ready_ to die. Thinking of what would have happened to her would drive me crazy - as it would if it were anyone else on the team.

They were obviously lucky that they got there when they did, otherwise, who knows what could have happened. She'd still be there, still being... God knows what.

All I really wanted to do - ever since she didn't get on the plane in Israel - was to go back and do it again; differently.

I should've gotten of the plane and reasoned with her - at least then I'd have known I did everything I could've to that point. If we hadn't been so pissed off at each other I probably would've.

I should've waited at Ziva's apartment that night; I was there to see her after all; should've waited to talk to _her_ not him. I usually trusted my gut - which I did - but this time it dug me a grave.

Should've, could've, would've. Thinking back it all seemed so easy; those were plausible and should have happened. Should have.

But they didn't, and I couldn't change the past now, I can only live in the present and control the future. My future, no one else's.

Amends needed to me made with Ziva; but they would happen at her own. I wasn't going to push her. I could try and talk to Ziva, but whether she wanted me in her life, any more was completely up to her.

Maybe you couldn't always control the future.

* * *

**This is a request that I got a while back from _yadoonkeanjaani._ So I hope that I do a good job and its sort of what they are expecting. **

**This will be primarily a Tony/Ziva fic - which is why its from their point of views and it will remain just theirs in the foreseeable future.**

**The rating is subject to change, I may change it a little later one depending on what I write. With that said, if at anytime you think the rating should be raised, tell me and it will happen. I will warn you if I think there is anything that I believe I should warn you about - like I did at the top. **

**I apologise if they seem a little out of character, and also if there is any POV swaps within the two parts.**

**Feedback is welcome.**


	2. Chapter 2: Long Road Ahead

**Thank you to those of you who have reviewed, favoured and added to their alerts :)**

**WARNINGS: Mentions or rape and torture.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS**

* * *

_**~Ziva~**_

* * *

I was slowly beginning to realise that perhaps I no longer knew myself as well as I did. I couldn't tell you what I was feeling at that moment. I could barely tell you what was happening as I was led to the parking garage where the car was waiting. I couldn't describe the feelings of the slight chill of the new atmosphere compared to the desert's. I couldn't describe the scents I smelt. I couldn't even bring myself to be excited that I had been rescued.

Perhaps the shock of it all; my captor - the man that I had basically depended upon over the past few months - was suddenly dead. The pain had stopped.

I was gone. The old me, the one I had grown used to, the one the team had grown used to no longer exist. It was replaced with an empty, broken shell of a woman.

I sat in the passenger's seat of Ducky's care and silently watched the houses and shops pass as Ducky drove me to the lodge. He was yet to talk to me, which was surprising, I would have thought he would try and fill the silence between us with small talk of some description. But he didn't seem to need or want to. He didn't even look as if he was going to share one of his many stories with me.

It wasn't until we reached the lodge that he spoke. I had stood on shaky legs as my feet tried to keep me balanced before walking towards the reception area of the lodge.

"Ziva, let me help you," Ducky said.

"I am fine, I can do it myself," I replied.

"I don't doubt that for a second," he said, "but there is nothing wrong with asking for help."

"I do not need help," I said.

He refrained from helping me, but he continued to walk with me to the reception.

"Ah, Ms David, I assume," the woman behind the desk stated.

"Yes," I replied.

"We have your room. It is room number one. Brody will escort you and will be available during the night of you need anything.

I almost stumbled and fell backwards when I saw Brody. He was tall, muscular and his etched features didn't give off a friendly vibe. I have never been one for being flighty, but something told me that he was someone you wouldn't want to mess with. I was unsure of whether to feel safe or whether to feel threatened and try to avoid this man. My immediate past told me to fear him. He would bring me pain. The men that looked like that in the desert were told to inflict pain on me. Instead of stumbling and falling to get away from the man, I took a deep breath to re-centre myself, reminding myself that I was in America now, not Somalia. These people in this confined space were not going to harm me. But I could not control the constricting feeling building up and consuming me. It did not help that I could feel Ducky's eyes on me. I prayed to who ever may listen that we could get out of here quickly.

"Ms David, Brody," he introduced himself, offering me his hand. Which I watched cautiously before hesitantly grasping it with my own before quickly retracting it as soon as it was polite to, "it's a pleasure to meet you," he smiled. I nodded; the smaller part wanted to throw an insult at the man I was hesitant of; like the remarks I threw at my captors in the first few days of my captivation. But the part of me which remained grounded in the dirty sand, holding on to what was left of self preservation was warning me against it. If I didn't anger him then I would stand a greater chance of making it through the night to see the next sun rise. Bringing the hope of a new day.

"I'm Doctor Donald Mallard, Ducky," Ducky said to the tall, muscular man.

"Good evening Doctor," he said, "is there anything that needs to be taken to Ms David's room?" he asked.

"Not at the moment. If my memory serves me correctly though, someone will be delivering a bag of clothes soon for her," he explained.

What? Clothes? Who was bringing me clothes? I had no possessions here, I have no clothes here. I looked down at my dirty attire. They were the same clothes that I had walked into the camp with. They had been taken from me, given back to me, along with a long sleeved shirt which did not belong to me; I had been tortured and beaten in these clothes. I would be glad to be free of them, but unless someone was buying them for me - which I did not want them to. But, I could not imagine my own being brought from my non-existent apartment. For obvious reasons.

"Okay, I will bring them over with your dinner when they arrive," Brody informed me, "but right now; this is the key to your room and of you follow me I will take you there."

I silently followed him and Ducky was following me.

The lodge room was small. It had a main room with a queen bed, a TV, a small table with two chairs and a small bathroom and kitchen off to the side of the main room. Brody informed me that if I needed anything to call the reception - first on the room's speed dial - and that he was on call all night, he gave me a quick tour. He showed me where everything was: towels, soap, rooms, appliances.

Some part in the back of my mind told me that he had been briefed on the situation. I just hoped in as little detail as possible. Not that many people knew what truly happened anyway.

I thanked Brody and he told me not to mention it before placing the keys on the small island bench and breakfast bar before leaving and closing the door behind him. Leaving me alone with the caring man who had accompanied me, but I didn't acknowledge his presence for a moment.

I simply stood in the main room, probably looking like an idiot - but I was beyond caring.

The room, it was cold. It felt cold even though it was fairly warm. The room seemed very impersonal; I felt out of place - similarly to when I was in the squad room, but for a different reason. In the squad room, I felt awkward, I knew I was welcome - I just didn't_ feel _welcome. Here, every inch of the place told me I didn't belong. There was nothing here to remind me of what had happened, of who I am - of who I _was_. At NCIS, there was an air in the building that reminded me that I was not just an assassin, but also an investigator - that made me know I was missed and welcomed. Even if people's opinion of me had wavered or had been changed.

"Ziva, why don't you take a seat," Ducky suggested, placing his hand on my back and leading me to the small arm chair in the corner of the room, "take the pressure off your feet. You're making walking look painful, my dear.

Do you want a drink; water?" he asked.

"Please," I almost begged.

"How are you feeling, Ziva?" he asked as he turned his back on me to walk to the kitchen to get my glass of water.

"I am okay," she replied.

"How are your injuries?" he questioned.

"Okay," she said.

"Did they run tests?" he asked.

I hesitated. When they wanted to take blood, I remember flipping out, but calming down enough so they could stick a few needles in me. But once they mentioned full physical exam I blocked everything out. I stopped listening to the machines beeping around me, the doctors talking to each other and me while they examined each contusion, each bruise, each patch of dirt covering my skin.

"Yes, but I could not tell you much about them."

"Did they sedate you?" he asked as he handed her the glass of water.

"No."

He nodded: "do you mind if I have a look?" he politely asked. But at least he asked.

I shook my head, holding the hem of my shirt to the waist of my pants: "no, Ducky, please," she said.

"Okay," he replied, not pushing the matter, "are you sure you don't want me or someone else stay the night?"

"I do not mean to sound rude, Ducky, but I would rather be alone," I said.

He was hesitant as he stood, stepping forward and placing his hands on my shoulders as I attempted to stand: "I can find my own way out Ziva; you need to take it easy and get better."

I knew he had not one doubt in his mind that he knew what had happened to me. And I had no doubt in my mind he was wrong.

He spared one last glance towards me as he laid his had on the handle, almost as if he was contemplating whether to argue and stay anyway. My stomach tied in a knot the longer he stood there, but untied so quickly it almost made me nauseous when he nodded once and said: "you know where to call if you need anything. I have left my number near the phone. Good night Ziva," he said, leaving me in empty silence.

The last of daylight shone through my window, it was serene and it should have calmed me. But it didn't. The entirety of my body and mind was waiting for the door to open and one of the thirty men who had gotten to know me well over the past days, weeks and months to walk in, ripping me away and taking me back. I felt everything from seeing Tony across from me was a dream. Maybe I _did_ die.

Maybe staying alone wasn't such a good idea - I wasn't going to be sleeping much which would leave me with thinking - that in itself could be unpredictable. The first night alone was always going to be the worst; may as well get it over with. At least if I do it tonight, it is one thing that I could say I did, one thing that didn't need to be done again.

I sat back in the chair, and let my head fall backwards as I slowly relaxed in the foreign room. I didn't think of anything. But the more I relaxed, the more aware I became of my body. The more aware I became of my body, the more everything hurt: reminding me that I wasn't dead.

As soon as I become aware of the pain and the senses of my body all I could feel was them. Just them. On my body, hands over my sides, my legs, my thighs, neck, in my hair, over my chest, breasts and worst of all _in_ me. Taking every ounce of self respect and dignity with them as they tried to break me. The bastards had made damn well sure that even if I lived, they would be all I could think about, all I would ever be able to remember.

I stumbled to the shower, falling over as my balance failed in the hurry I was to get to the bathroom. I needed to get this... This feeling off of me. I had escaped but I was still trapped.

I hesitated. I hesitated in turning the water on, and I hesitated in taking my clothes off. I wanted the shower; but didn't want everything else that would come with seeing my body naked. The only time I had seen my body without clothes was left in the cell with none. I didn't want to see them. I didn't want to feel them. My wounds either ached or stung. The sunburn I got while not moving out of the scorching sun that came through the lone window stung as well as burned. The newer cigarette burns and cuts that I were inflicted on me the previous day accompanied the older ones from days, weeks, and months ago ached but would sting when I stepped into the heat of the shower. Not an inch of my body was left unscathed.

The only thing that made me turn the water to warm and strip to nothing was that I felt dirty, filthy. I had been touched against my will, and now that - aside from the pain where the wounds were - was all I could feel. Their hands running up and down my body; not leaving any part untouched - I _needed_ to be free of their touch.

Stepping into the water caused my body to tense before relaxing. My hair was matted with sweat, dust and probably blood. I had been washed slightly at the hospital but that was only to see the extend of my injuries. I put enough shampoo in my hands before I rubbed them through my knotty hair violently. The water running off of me had a dirty tinge to it from the dirty that had built up and been caked onto my skin over the past months. The suds fell from my hair and ran down my back and sides, as it seeped into my cuts and burns, I hissed in slight pain. I rinsed my hair out before taking the flannel and putting a decent amount of soap on it and vigorously scrubbing my dirty skin being careful not to irritate the contusions over my body. Between my toes, up my legs, around my hips, waist, chest and neck. I tried getting my back as much as I could. I still didn't feel clean. Everything was dirty in some way. Even though the water ran clear from my body, I still felt dirty. I sat on the floor as I washed myself again, and again. Before I gave up, I conditioned my hair and turned the water off. I had been in there for at least an hour - washing my hair and my body.

I could still feel it. Everything they did to me. I could feel it; even the blade of the dirty knife slicing methodically at my skin, or him holding the burning cigarette to my torso, his hand coming in contact with my face, and the various other torture devices he used against me as he yelled profanities and questions out of me.

I looked at myself in the mirror - I didn't want to; but the mirror was hard to miss when stepping out of the shower, it was right in front of it. I could see from my waist up.

What I saw made me sick.

What had come of my body?

There were parts of my body that looked beyond torture techniques to the point where it looked like I had been almost mauled which may have looked worse than they actually were. The swelling from infections, the raw flesh and the soap that had seeped into the open ones, inflaming them more. But it wasn't the angry wounds that bothered me: it was the patterned scars over my torso and chest. I even had some on my shoulders. There were small circle ones, a few bite marks from when they were sick of using weapons on me and thin scars varying on size, from a range of different types of torture mechanisms. And I was thin. Very thin, almost bordering on unhealthily thin.

I was disgusted. I let them do this to me. I could have fought back.

There was a knock at the door. I looked around panicked. I wasn't answering the door naked; I wasn't answering the door with a towel wrapped around my body.

I walked out into the main room with the towel, I spied the complementary dressing gown and sighed with relief, it was barely anything, but better than nothing. I pulled that over my body. I still felt exposed but at least no one could see my body.

I opened the door and the man from earlier was standing there, "good evening Ms David. I have brought you your room service," he said.

"I did not order room service," I said silently.

"The Director of NCIS informed me to deliver three meals a day while you are here, all paid for."

"Just... Put it over there," I said as I opened the door wider, pointing at the breakfast bar, and allowed the man in.

"The clothes were delivered to the front desk. Where would you like this?" Brody asked.

"On the bed will be fine," I said after looking around for a moment.

"Is there anything else you need?" He asked.

"No thank you," I replied. He walked out.

The smell of freshly cooked food filled the room. It smelt delicious and I was hungry - I sat on the stool and looked at the food. It made me on edge - I thought for an alter-motives, usually unless they wanted something - sex or information, which was really all they wanted from me - I would not be allowed to eat.

Was it right to eat now? I mused. I shook the thought, disgust filling everything. They had made me forget that I _needed_ to eat; food was _not_ just a reward.

I pushed it away from me, suddenly not very hungry.

I left it for a bit to get changed. I opened the bag; there were T-shirts, three quarter and long sleeve tops, jeans, tracksuits, jumpers, formal pants and underwear. I grabbed the loosest, most covering clothing to wear.

I grabbed the loosest, biggest clothing I could find. One that didn't make me feel restricted. I ended up in a grey pair of tracksuit pants and a black long sleeved top. I pushed the bag of clothes of the bed. They fell to the floor and some fell out. I would pick it up later.

It was still fairly early, about seven thirty.

I walked to the kitchen, getting myself another glass of water before sitting in front of the food again. I hadn't eaten much in recent days, but I knew when I did eat that I could not eat too much too quickly. What they had given me; I would not be able to eat all of it without making myself sick, but I started eating anyway before I walked towards the bed.

As I lied on the bed, I realised that I had not been so comfortable in a long time. The mattress was too soft for my liking - to what I was used to, considering I had been sleeping on the floor and even before that, my mattress in my apartment had been more firm - but I was not complaining; it was better than the floor. Suddenly all the things I used to take for granted seemed like huge things that were novelties in the long run. The pillow beneath my head smelt like dust - clearly, no one had been in this room for a while - the quilt was thin and the sheets were soft; but none of that mattered.

I closed my eyes, I tried to sleep; every time I shut them I would see them - feel them. I feared that every thing that happened over the few days would disappear. That I would lose the security and safety I felt, that I would be back in Somalia.

I simply lay on the bed on my side with my legs curled with the quilt pulled to my chin. It wasn't a cold night - especially compared to the cold nights in the desert, it simply added an extra layer of cover against my body and the outside world. My body was private once again; only to be seen by the people _I_ decided worthy.

My life had always been based on planning and organisation. If it wasn't planned by me then it was planned by my father or someone else of higher ranking. I had been so convinced I was going to die that I stopped planning my life. I stopped planning what I was going to do the next minute, I stopped planning my escape, I stopped planning what I was going to do once I was out - I stopped planning when I lost hope. Now as a consequence my routine was interrupted, I had no form of normality to my life. I would not be waking up in the morning and then going for a run, or following my old work routine - because I simply had no work to return to no work to return to and I couldn't run.

With all the thoughts running through my mind; sleep was impossible. That on top of everything else... I decided I wasn't sleeping tonight. I couldn't sleep tonight.

It was going to be a long road to recovery, not that I would admit that to any one but myself. And it was a road that I feared of travelling.

Don't get me wrong; I was happy to be home surrounded by people who I used to trust.

Home?

Home. I was home. Israel was not where I belonged any more. Here was. Well it was once I bought new possessions and a new apartment, made amends with the team and perhaps tried to secure a real job at NCIS not just as a liaison officer or settle for a job somewhere else if I couldn't get a job there.

There was no way I was going back; not to Israel. Abba would have me killed or send me on another suicide mission - one that I wouldn't come back from. One that would make sure I was dead. No. Israel was not my home any more.

* * *

**Please Review :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hi, Sorry for the wait. I just got a little busy as school came to an end and some writing things I have been doing that take a month to do... But the good news, there is no more writing things that go for a month, there is no school (I'm on Summer Holidays as of last week until sometime near the end of January) so I have plenty of time to write and update, and I have found a system of writing that helps me write - which is probably more a frame of mind than anything else.**

**Anyway, sorry for the wait, and sorry if this isn't up to scratch, and I'll try to keep the next chapters coming a little quicker.**

**WARNINGS: No warnings for this, I don't think****  
**

**Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS.**

* * *

**~Tony~**

* * *

To put it in simplest terms, I couldn't sleep. There was no way on the face of the planet that sleep would come easy. My mind was racing; thinking, over thinking, remembering memories I held close, regretting decisions I'd made, questions I would never find the answer to. I worried, a lot. There was no point in denying it. The scenarios my conscience played before me served a constant reminder for everything that had recently unfolded, reminding me of the prior events, the revenge-turned-rescue mission and the long journey ahead.

No matter what I did, I couldn't stop thinking of Ziva; couldn't stop wondering how she was. I - at some earlier stage of the night - considered calling her room at the lodge before concluding that she wouldn't want to talk, let alone to me. But I couldn't stop the nagging thought at the back of my mind that something was wrong.

I believed she was dead; I had - technically - lost her, but with that, I also had lost hope of finding her alive and then to find out she was...

Knowing only one way to stop the nagging images and voice of my conscience, I flung the sheets back and walked to the lounge, taking my phone with me. I simply stared at it for a moment. Weighing the pros and cons.

I could either ring and put my mind at ease, but what if she was asleep - though, if I was there for a few days and I couldn't sleep, there was no way she would have been able to get to sleep let alone stay asleep.

The look on her face, the broken look etched there. I did not want to even begin to imagine what she went through, what she saw, what she was exposed to but apparently my subconscious believed otherwise.

I didn't know what had happened to her, which lead me to only one other vice. Thinking. Assuming what happened. Something that I knew a very long time ago would be my undoing.

I had not seen any of her inevitable injuries. They were there, but like the mental ones, they were hidden from view. I don't think she let anyone see them, and given what I could hear on the plane while the medic-team were tending to her, I don't think they saw them either. The only person still alive that knew about them, knew where they were, was her. The only person who knew what happened to her, was her. Surely she didn't need to carry that wait around with her. She'd talk about it, wouldn't she?

Except I knew of cases involving men assaulting women, in many cases the women were very reluctant to talk. Even more so when they had let it slip to someone else and then that someone else reported what had happened. They were even more reluctant when they were adamant that they were fine and that they could do it on their own, that they could just forget.

But many of them don't, unless they blocked the event.

I mean, I didn't know for sure what had happened; I could only assume, and I hoped my assumptions were way off, but being the only woman in a terrorist camp of thirty men all wanting to know the same thing... I'm surprised she lasted as long as she did, no matter what they had done to her.

If my knowledge of her hadn't changed, Ziva would be one of those women who were adamant that she could do it all herself. If we pushed it, she'd close up and push everyone away from her when she didn't need to. We just wanted to help.

But the risk of forcing her deeper into her shell was too high, the realisation caused me to dial; but not the Navy Lodge she was staying at.

"Ducky," I greeted when he answered his phone.

"Anthony?" He asked.

"Yeah, sorry for calling so late," I replied.

"Never mind, I wasn't asleep anyway," Ducky said, "I am assuming there is a reason for your call?" He questioned.

"How was Ziva when you dropped her off?" I asked.

"She still should be in hospital," Ducky murmured.

"Why?"

"Observation, I do not think that she is in the right mind to be alone - but she insisted," He replied, "She didn't talk to me on the way and barely talked to me while I was there."

"Do you know the extent of her injuries?" I asked.

"No, she wouldn't let me see - I wasn't going to push - the only way any of us would be able to see what happened to her was either for her to tell us or for us to see her medical records from the hospital, the only way that would happen is if she allowed us to see them," Ducky said.

"So she isn't good?"

"She could be better," He replied, "She is flighty, when the man who was taking her to her room and supplying her with food she seemed to be spooked by him. I don't want to speculate, but I can't imagine what happened to her out there was very pleasant. I doubt we will hear anything about anything until she is ready to tell us or something reveals itself before then."

"That could be a while Ducky, we both know how Ziva deals with personal issues," I said.

"Yes, but I believe that this is different, Tony, she was there for months and who knows what happened to her. Don't push her." He warned.

"Do you think she'll talk?" I asked.

"It is hard to say. What did you talk about with her on the way home?" He asked.

"Nothing. She didn't talk, to anyone, except telling the medics to leave her alone, to keep away and not touch her," I replied.

"What did she say while you were still there?"

"She believed she was going to die, that she was ready to die," I said, staring blankly at the black TV while I spoke, not wanting to but continuously seeing her face.

"Then I would suspect that she'd be a little overwhelmed," He stated.

"Why? She's home, she's safe."

"Is she?" He questioned, "Is she home? Is she safe?"

He posed a good question. Was she home? I believed she was. She belonged here, in America, at NCIS. But that didn't mean she felt the same way. Her whole life had been Mossad, she came to NCIS when she was twenty-three, and she'd have had to been Mossad for at least a few years prior. Her whole life was centred around her work. She had worked with NCIS for four years, but she still belonged to Mossad, her homeland was still Israel. Nothing would change that. Was it naive of me to think that she would stay here after we saved her? Or that she'd come to her senses and realise that her father wasn't a good man and clearly didn't have her best interests at heart? Was it naive to think that she wouldn't return to Mossad, Israel, her family?

"Yes, her family's here, no one will hurt her here. No one will allow her to be harmed."

"Yes, Tony, that is easy to say, but it's hard to assume. Ziva has never been an agent at NCIS; her biological family is in Israel. You have to remember what happened in the events leading up to going to Israel. I can't imagine that she wouldn't have been surprised to see NCIS and not Mossad there. She left us, NCIS. There would be a part of her that feels she doesn't deserve NCIS' help or loyalty, there is every chance that she will return to Mossad, or at least to Israel."

I shook my head. The possibility of her returning to Mossad or Israel was not an option. I would stop her if there was a next time. "She won't be getting on any plane back to Israel," I said.

"Give her time, Tony. She will come around when she is ready. She would be feeling overwhelmed because she seemed adamant that she was going to die, and after four months she is taken from where she had been living in probably less than desirable conditions then taken by the people she had chosen to leave behind back to the place she had left behind where she has nothing left. The people who had been feeding her and supplying her with the basic needs are dead. She needs to get her head around all that before she talks to anyone," Ducky said.

"And how long will that take?"

"I would not be able to tell you a time; even if I could hazard a guess it depends on the individual. Not on medicine and science. She firstly needs to accept what's happened before she can move forward from it. You will know when that happens, because that's when she'll talk about something, even if it's not the events of what happened and it's just her telling you that she wants to move past it. You have to trust that she will do what is best for her."

"Yeah, Ducky I know," I murmured.

"If it's worrying you that much, Anthony, call her. I just can't promise that she'll answer you."

* * *

**Please Review:)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry it has been a while, this is one of those stories that take a while to write because I have no idea how to write what I'm thinking effectively to paper, but once I have finished the chapter I feel so satisfied with myself.**

**There are no warnings that I can think of, maybe for the italic part at the beginning, but it isn't anything too graphic.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS or its characters.**

* * *

_**~ZIVA~**_

* * *

_The room was dim. The swirling dust and sand shining in the blazing sun that shone through the lone window, offering the only source of light. The air thick and bordering on hard to breath._

_He watched with a sadistic smile as he stalked towards me. He began talking, but whatever it was, I didn't hear. The pain shooting through my chest from where he took his last hit, blinding all my other senses. He was unsatisfied at my lack of answers for his questions, and he was going to make sure I paid. He knelt next to me, taking a handful of my hair and pulling it to force me to stand on my shaky legs before he roughly took hold of my shoulder - helping me stay up right. He was yelling at me, threatening me, telling me what would happen if I did not cooperate. I shook in anticipation and in fear. Sometimes - as with anything - anticipation was worse than the actual deed, the actual event._

_I did not look at him; I did not want to see the anger and violence in his eyes. There was more yelling. With his free hand, he grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him. I knew as soon as his eyes met mine and the sickly sly smirk that covered his face that he felt my jaw clench. I was not crying, screaming or yelling for help or out in pain, but he learnt, in the time that I had been here, what my reactions to pain felt and looked like, what me trying to keep the cries of pain buried looked like._

_"You are one strong woman, but you will break," he promised._

_"No I won't," I replied, voice coarse from no water for a prolonged period._

_He let go of me, and I stumbled to gain balance. He was not going to get the better of me._

_He pushed me back against the wall I was near, holding my wrists above my head in one hand. I twisted my arms, hands and entire body, trying to get free, but it was not working. I was too weak and he was too strong._

_I heard the sound I felt the sting of his hand over my face. "Keep still," He demanded, but I continued to struggle._

_"This would all be a lot less painful if you just did as you were told," He hissed in my ear, his mouth way too close to me for comfort._

_"What would it matter? You are going to kill me anyway," I said back, turning my head away from him. I felt too exposed, too open in the position he held me in. I could not use my hands, and I could barely stand let alone use my legs._

_"What are you waiting for?" He questioned. He grabbed my chin again, forcing me to look at him._

_I stayed silent. He hit me again. "When I talk to you, I expect answers."_

_"You are not going to get any from me." I braced myself, but he didn't hit me again. Instead, he threw me away from the wall, to the ground. The hard ground grazing my legs, wrists aching from catching my thinning body._

_He smirked, walking towards me. "No body is coming for you. You left them," He said._

_I moved my way into a sitting position as he squatted beside me. "But I'm more interested in who you left." His hand trailed down my face._

_"You will never know," I stated, feeling his hand move away from me._

My eyes shot open and I involuntarily jumped as the image of him above my body, using his strength to keep me still. I knew only too well what came next. But as my other senses began to return I noticed the room was too cold, too clean, too comfortable to be what was my prison. But still, I was afraid to move, afraid that there was another person in the room with me, they may not be hovering near me but they still could have been there.

From where I was, I could see that it was dark outside of the window, I was lying against something soft and I was strangely comfortable compared to my desert accommodation.

I frowned in confusion. The echoing silence, the cool atmosphere - it was cool, but not desert cool, the air I breathed in was clean, there was no sand, no dust. I could not have been there, which meant that I did not have those men near me. But there was something constricting wrapped around my body.

My free hand felt the fabric on the mattress, I was wrapped in sheets.

When I tried to sit, the sheets hindered my action, constricting me within the hold I imposed on myself with my obvious tossing and turning. The sheets tight around my chest and one of my arms, wrapped around me. I felt my breathing pick up, my heart beat a little quicker and panic beginning to consume me as - with my free hand - I began to grasp at the cover over me, pulling at it, some parts I grabbed onto tightened it and others loosened it slightly.

I managed to wriggle my other arm out and pull the sheet from under me, allowing me to sit up straight. But I didn't stay on the bed for long. I swung my legs off the side and slid of the bed and to the floor, the texture of the fitted sheet and the base of the bed irritated the wounds on my back as the shirt I wore caught on the bed, knees up near my chest. My panic breaths still rippled through my body, slowing until it returned to normal.

I could feel the cold air against my back from under the bed, helping me back to the place that was now reality.

The room was dark. It had never bothered me before. Darkness had saved me on many occasions, allowing me to sneak away or stay hidden - within reason - from a target. I was taught not to fear it - taught to use night and darkness to my advantage. But now... It held nothing but the unknown, mysteries, my demons. I was suddenly seeing dark like a child afraid of the unknown - afraid of the dark - being locked in a dark room.

I stood on uneasy feet, shaking slightly as I stood but managing to keep my balance before blindly looking for a light switch to turn one of the lights on. When finally I was no longer illuminated in the dull glow from the lights outside instead the brighter light from the roof before I walked back to the bed where I rearranged the pillows and lent against the headboard, pulling back the mess of covers so they covered my legs before allowing my mind to be consumed with thoughts.

I was surprised I was able to sleep. But what just happened, it was too real. It was not a dream - could not have been a dream, but then why was I here, in a bed, beneath the sheets that had wrapped tightly around me and a cold sweat covering every inch of my body, causing the shirt I wore to become damp?

I did not even know when I fell asleep; I was awake one minute and then waking up the next, like blinking.

It slowly dawned on me that I was no longer in the heat of the desert, but the cooler atmosphere of America. Safe from my physical antagonist, but the psychological ones? What about those? The memories deeply etched into my mind, haunting me every moment, waking moments and apparently my sleeping ones too.

I knew I wasn't going to be sleeping for the rest of the night as fear consumed me again. I did not want to be visited by ghosts again, not if they were going to torture me some more.

**PAGE BREAK**

The sun crept from the sliver of the curtain which did not close as it slowly rose, giving the security of yet another morning. Even if it was just one. I stared at the dull roof, a tinge of yellow in the right light from age. For the past few hours, I had watched the shadows dance across it and the patterns change as the light engulfed the room. Trying not to think, which was harder to do than it seemed.

I had not returned to sleep - I was not even sure how I managed to sleep the first time - I could not let the images of my previous dream haunt me again. As petty as that might sound - as weak as it made me sound. I had been faced with worse than being beaten. But it was not even that, it was what it represented. The raw pain and memories of the past months that came back when I saw HIS face, when I relived what had happened.

During the past few months I had turned back to my Mossad ways of coping - it did not take long for the relapse to happen when I was put in such a situation - I had taken to sleeping with one eye open, sleeping lightly when I could and was always aware of what was happening around me. That way I would be ready or I would wake up when I heard footsteps coming closer or I sensed something out of place.

Living in America had changed me; there was no doubt about that. They had forced me to trust, to care, to accept but most of all they taught me how to feel... To love. With all that, though, came destruction, hurt, loss. The things that as a child and an adolescent I was never taught how to deal with properly. When everything unfolded, it drove me to stay in Israel. To stay with where I knew I could stay away from all the emotions and dive head first into the first mission that presented itself; effectively separating myself from everything and everyone I held responsible for my loss even when I knew that if I had stuck around we could have worked our way through it. But it scared me.

People say that it - living in America - had made me soft; but I don't believe it has. If anything, it has made me stronger. Stronger because I learnt how to cope with it - no matter how little I had learnt, they still gave me foundations of the knowledge and the mechanisms of coping. I was a stronger person until I hit a wall with no where to go, until I forced myself into a corner and made myself chose between my loyalties, until I was broken down and torn apart piece by piece.

I stared at the ceiling while I waited for the sun to finish rising behind the curtain. I was tired, it clouded my mind, I was barely able to keep my eyes open but I was not sleeping.

As I lied there I assessed what my next move was, but I had no idea where to start. What was I supposed to do? I had nothing.

I needed money, I needed shelter, I needed clothes, I needed security. I needed a lot of things, but I did not know where to find them. I knew what I needed, but had no idea where to begin.

My money - what wasn't here - was in Israel, I needed to get it. I could not live off nothing. I needed to pay these people here who were letting me stay in their rooms. I needed money to find a place to live here. I needed money to apply for a visa too.

I was - technically - here illegally. I was rescued by the America government. Fair enough that they wanted me to be here while my injuries healed. NCIS were not insensitive, they would make sure I was better before sending me back to Israel and into the clutches of my father's hands again, that was if they did.

My father. I stopped being angry with him a long time ago. I stopped feeling betrayed by him too. I figured that if I was going to die then I may as well come to terms with it all. I forgave Tony, my brother, even my father. I forgave everyone who I could remember to have hurt or betrayed me during my life. But just because I forgave him did not mean that I still did not have questions for him, gnawing questions that ate away at me for the entire duration of my capture and now.

Why didn't he come looking for me? Why didn't he send people? He knew where I was.

Then I turned from being angry and blaming him to questioning myself. What had I done to him to make him leave me? Did he not care?

Even after all those years, even after what Ari had told me years ago I still did not believe him. I did not want to believe him so I held onto whatever faith I could that he was wrong. All faith disappeared when it was NCIS to have found me and not Mossad.

But, he was the Director of Mossad and I had prided myself to not rely on his high status to get me where I wanted to be. He needed to and I wanted him to treat me as any other officer under his command. He wouldn't want to risk a team of his men to save one of person. With anyone. Wouldn't he?

I did not even understand why I kept letting myself and my thoughts return to my father. Whether what happened was his fault or not, I did need to let my mind wonder to the place where it would never find answers. There was nothing more frustrating than looking for answers when you know that you are not going to find any anyway.

As the phone rang that sat on the night-stand beside me began to ring, I let Eli slip from my mind.

I had developed a habit over the previous months, a habit that was not good for me, a habit which only allowed me to prepare for the worst. I had become pessimistic, and all the scenarios that played through my mind were ones of which Tony did not accept my apology; the rest of the team did not allow me back; Vance not wanting me to return to NCIS; Gibbs did not want me on his team; them no longer trusting me.

I was sure when NCIS and the people I had worked with in America became so important. So much so to the point where it seemed as though I was dependent on them, which caused me to question myself even more. If they were so important, why did I lose trust in the them?

Somewhere at the back of my mind I noticed the phone's ringing halt, a few moments later it started again.

I knew why. I knew part of it was because I was torn. I knew that part of it was because Tony over stepped his mark as my partner. I knew part of it was because I was angry. I also knew that I could not stay there forever. It was, after all, a liaison position, tying Mossad with NCIS. A bond that I knew would someday break for whatever reason it may have been. There was not knowing how much longer it was going to last, especially since Eli had had me back the previous year for a few months.

Maybe I hoped that if I returned he would see all that he missed while I was there every time previous. Maybe I naively assumed that leaving of my own accord would make it easier. Maybe I thought that pushing everyone away from me - ultimately causing them to do the same - would make me leaving easier for all of us. Maybe it was a mixture of it all combined with Eli's words to me. I was not sure of my reasoning any more. Whatever it was, it seemed logical at the time.

The ringing continued, breaking through until it was the only thing I could hear. I could not think of one person that would be calling at this hour of the morning and I did not want to be harassed. Which is why I pulled the covers back and followed the wire coming from the phone and pulled it from the wall. If it was apart of the team, I did not need hear their sympathy, I did not need their words of comfort or to hear the worry that would no doubt taint their voice.

Within a matter of minutes from when I disconnected the line, there was a quick knock at the door and heartbeat of a pause before the door swung open. I jumped a mile in the air at the sound. With a sudden rush of adrenaline, I stood from where I sat on the bed and backed right up against the wall, ignoring the dull throb from the ache in my ankle.

The man's eyes quickly swept the room before resting on me.

"Are you okay?" Brody asked, his gazed caused me to cower. He took two steps towards me. "I'm not going to hurt you," He said softly.

I nodded. "Yes, I am fine," I said, my voice sounding no more than a whisper.

"Is there anything I can get you?" He questioned, taking another step.

"I am okay, thank you. Why did you do that?" I asked, an edge to my voice. A sudden burst of confidence washed over me before it crashed to nothing. The last time I questioned someone's motives, it did not end well for me. I gauged his reaction carefully.

"I got a phone call from a man by the name of Anthony DiNozzo. He said that he placed multiple calls to this room with no answer. He called me and told me to check on you urgently," He answered, this time he stayed where he stood.

"You thought that this was the best way to do so?" I spat.

"I'm sorry I startled you. He sounded worried and you not answering the phone probably didn't help his anxiety," He pointed out.

"Next time wait a little longer before knocking the door down, please," I requested, "Can you please leave?"

He motioned to turn and leave, but he stopped. I could do nothing but watch and wait for his next move while he faced me again.

"Was something wrong with the food last night?" He asked. He had to have seen the food that I left - which was most of it.

"No." I shook my head.

I saw the way he eyed me suspiciously, the way he took in my frame covered by clothes that were too big for me. I knew I looked thin, I knew what I looked like. I shifted under his gaze.

"Forgive the intruding question, but why didn't you eat it?" In that moment, I knew he was more innocent than he seemed, possibly younger than he looked too. My first reaction the previous night was that he had been read into what had happened. That possibility was still there, but his question made me second guess myself.

"I was not hungry," I replied. I did not need to explain anything to a perfect stranger.

"You need to eat," He stated, "And sleep. I don't know to what extent everything happened, but I know bits. And I know that to get better you need to sleep and eat."

"What do you know?" I asked.

"I know that you have just been brought back from Africa somewhere. And from my observations I can only gather that you were there for a while," He said, "I just want to help you."

"And you can do that by leaving," I snapped, "I do not want your care and I do not need you telling me what I can and cannot do. You can tell Tony that I am fine-"

"What about when he asks why you didn't pick up?"

"I was asleep," I replied.

The concern and compassion in his eyes was so overwhelming, so different from what I became used to seeing. I did not know, however, whether it was a welcome change. I mean, it was better than seeing hostility, but with compassion and concern came a whole different realm.

He said no more. This time when he turned to leave, he left. Not giving me another look.

As the door closed, I stepped away from the wall and let out a sigh.

Tony.

He was the one that was calling me. He obviously wanted to talk, but it begged the question of whether I wanted to or not. So much had happened, and I was not going to say that I was the only person affected, because I know I was not. He came to Somalia, got captured on purpose. But, why? He did not know that I was still alive, he thought I wasn't. So why was he there?

There were so many loose ends, with him, with the rest of the team, with Mossad, with NCIS. With all of that, I was a fool to believe that dealing with Tony would be easy. I hurt him, I needed someone to blame and I blamed him.

I needed to talk to him, but not yet.

* * *

**Please Review :)**


End file.
